The Last Hurrah
by idioticonion
Summary: As the summer comes to an end, Robin is leaving New York. - Set after The Leap. Includes M/F smut.


"So you're really leaving, huh?" Barney says, his voice faint on the late-summer breeze. That day dawned blazing hot, as if the city is struggling against autumn, determined to go all-out in one last, glorious day of sunshine and stark shadows, of Popsicles and ice cream in the park and businessmen and women slacking off from work.

One last hurrah.

A bit like them.

Robin turns to him and raises an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah!"

A cloud passes over the sun. Barney adjusts his shades and leans back against the tree, his arm draped casually over her shoulder while she feeds him strawberries from a plastic basket, dipping each one in deliciously thick, clotted cream.

"Yes, I'm trying to make you ill…" She says, with a wicked laugh, when he wrinkles his nose and refuses to take another strawberry. "Stop being difficult."

He chuckles as she leans into his arms, scootching back so that she's sitting between his legs, her hips nestled against his thighs. He snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her even closer. He doesn't want to let her go.

Doesn't want to ever let her go.

But if Robin pulls away, he'll release her. He always does. She's always had the upper hand, after all. "I'm not being difficult," he snorts. "S'just that I can think of better things to do with a strawberry."

She laughs. "A strawberry?" Robin has a dirty laugh, a wonderful laugh, rich and round and sure of itself. "I'm sorry, but even you can't make a strawberry into a sex toy." She pauses, realising what she's just said, and her next words come out in a rush. "And no-that's-not-a-challenge-"

But it's too late of course and, as she twists around to look at him, he's already way ahead of her with a smirk that says "You just watch me!". She knows better than to argue so she watches him take a small bite out of the fruit, watches him with lowered eyelids pouting lips, like she's already a little turned on by the mystery. She wants to see what happens next. That's his gift and her weakness.

"Lick," he tells her, and her tongue darts out, pink and playful and drags across the fruit. Still holding it to her lips, he slides one hand along her thigh and up under her long gypsy-skirt so that it bunches up at one side. They're partially obscured by the bushes but if anyone looked right at them they would see all too clearly what he was doing. But, damn it, that's half the thrill.

Robin makes a growling sound of protest, low in her throat, as he hitches the soft cotton skirt higher, as his fingers find the lace of her panties. His hand snakes back out and Robin grins, as if he's given up that easily, as if she's won.

He palms the strawberry into his fist - the fruit is cool against his skin as his hand disappears back under her skirt. Her eyes widen in surprise and she lets out a tiny gasp as his fingers delve between her thighs, parting them, sliding the cool, slick strawberry against her clit until she groans.

He heels dig fitfully against the earth, her cheeks blush rose-red with heat. The pressure of her buttocks against his groin is maddening as she grinds herself against the fruit and he feels her warmth turn it to mush in his fingers. She cries out and he lets out a bark of laughter, tells her to shut the hell up or he'll stop.

"You bastard!" She hisses, but she's nearly there, her thighs clamp around his wrist as she rides him, her entire body jerking in one, violent spasm before she goes limp.

He kisses her throat, moving the damp strands of hair away from her sun-kissed skin, tasting salt and fire and summer. The days will dawn hot and blue and arid where she's going.

She'll take the sunshine with her.

And New York will lapse into winter. Ice will slowly creep around his heart and he'll forget, forget that she left a blouse at his place and it didn't freak him out. Forget all the times she told him she loved him. Forget what it felt like to be someone, mean something.

The cold wind will blow all those memories away and he'll return to his natural home of cheap women and expensive booze and long empty hours and even longer meaningless days.

"You're really going?" He asks her, one last time. Carefully, he extracts his fingers from between her legs, smoothes down her skirt and pops the mangled fruit into his mouth, chewing it. "You know they don't have strawberries in Morocco."

She laughs her dirty laugh and it both thrills him and cuts him in two. They haven't had enough time. One summer is not enough.

After a while, as the shadows seem to lengthen on the grass, she smiles and says. "Barney…?"

"Yep?" He answers her, breathing heat and longing.

"You ever felt like seeing Africa?"


End file.
